Sisters are (only) doing it for themselves
Women don’t like other women. There I’ve said it. Another one of the secret myths of femininity shattered. It’s not going to win me any friends but I don’t care. Christ if I cared about having friends then I’d have ended it all a long time ago. Actually I’ll qualify that last statement. If I cared about having women friends then I’d have ended it a long time ago.
I do have a handful of friends who happen to women but they happened more or less by accident and the fact that they’re women is secondary to the fact that they’re friends. The reason for this is very simple. I realised very early on that the vast majority of women are the sort that have given other women a bad name. I’m not talking about reputation here…you can screw as many people in as many positions as many times as you like - I don’t give a damn. I’m not even talking about brain power. If you’re a bimbo and you’re happy, clap your hands ( mind you don’t chip your nail varnish). I’m talking about the fact that when push comes to shove a women can be guaranteed to administer the final prod. Or to put it another way - when you’re up shit creek without a paddle it’ll be a women who’ll sell you down the river - earning herself a nice whack of commission to boot.
No matter how enduring the friendship, given a chance to put the boot in a women will swap her Manolos for a pair of steel capped boots and take aim. It might be more subtle than a kick up the ass - how many times have you proffered a told you so under the guise of advice? Or given advice that was a character assassination under the guise of ‘I’m only telling you because I’m your friend.’ Have you ever been less than honest about whether her bum looks big in that, her choice of partner or what she wants out of her career? It not that you want to rain on your friends parade, constant drizzle is much more subtle and means that there’s a strong chance that the parade won’t ever get to the start line.
If I’m ever in a real crisis - of any sort, then my male friends are my first port of call. They won’t listen to me drone on for hours over a bottle of cheap wine overanalysing my problem until I’ve turned into a neurotic alcoholic. They won’t make my problem their conversation piece until the next poor fucker lands in the shit. They cut to the chase, tell it like it is and then offer some suggestions. They won’t say ( in a sweet whisper of voice that suggests you’re retarded or dying or both) ‘I thought so at the time but I didn’t like to say’. Well…if you thought it was bad idea, and you’re my friend why the fuck didn’t you tell me in words of one syllable? Men will say ‘I told you that was fucking stupid thing to do.’ Because they did - but having ignored their initial advice they don’t get huffy - they offer a solution. I might not like their advice but I don’t have to worry about gagging on the sickly sweet marzipan taste of the cyanide.
Forget sisters under the skin, (have you ever seen sisters together ?) I defy all of you to deny that at one point in your life a friends misfortune gave you an uncomfortably warm feeling. A ‘ha well that’s put her in her place …who does she think she is’ sort of feeling. Yell if you never once said anything bitchy about a woman friend. (Its very quiet) I’ll make it easier for you. Yell if you’ve been bitchy about a friend less than ten times. ( It’s still awfully quiet here.) Women are crabs in a bucket - as soon as one looks like they’re going to climb out, the others will try to pull it back.
It’s not all about appearance either although that’s one of the most obvious ways we do it. What about the search for a mate. Cast your mind back to school - didn’t the girl with a boyfriend have an air of smug superiority that you just wanted to strangle her for? You weren’t interested in the spotty faced git she had hanging off her arm, but you’d have married him just to get up her nose.
What about the one that was extremely good at hockey - didn’t you want to brain her with the stick or at the very least whack her ankles hard a few times.
What about that quiet one - who had the perfectly neat handwriting. She might not ever had said anything interesting in her essays but at least you could read them. Ever felt like ripping up her exercisebook.
They (we) can’t help it. It’s nature red in tooth and claw. We’re genetically programmed to be this way. There we go, perfumed, polished and doing the peacock strut. We’d have our teeth bared if we weren’t scared we have lipstick on them. It’s all about survival. We need to survive and in order to do so we need to eliminate the competition and what’s that? You got it - now all together… Other women. Forget all this civilised crap. At our most basic level we’re programmed to eat, sleep, shit and procreate and no matter how we dress it up in the trappings of the psyche the animal remains.